Tuesday, 19 October 2010

Old Bag Postwar Sex Conspiracy.

Slutty American G.I.s sample the carnal delights of English slags while their comrades lie dying on a battlefield somewhere in a quagmire of Nazi jizz.

The main thing I hate about old people is the fact that not a single bloody one of them will ever admit to knowing what sex was, let alone doing it, outside of marriage. By “old people” I’m talking quite specifically about the generation that came of age before or during World War II and went on to parent the Baby Boom. In cultural theory, they are referred to as the Silent Generation, and while they never shut up on topics like immigration, pre-decimal money and how you used to be able to leave your front door open, when it comes to talk of wartime how’s yer father?, they definitely live up to their name.

Fair enough, their private lives and sexual morals are their own business. But again and again they reel out this fairytale idea of an innocent generation that believed wholeheartedly in storks and cabbage patches, where each and every one of them learned about sex and reproduction via a ‘happy accident’ in the hours/ days/ weeks/ months/ years following their marriage.

I’ll concede that intercourse was a taboo subject back then. Christianity was more prevalent, and sex education was less of a priority. But while I don’t doubt there were a number of wedding night virgins, I find it impossible to believe that everybody was as utterly naive as they pretend they were.

Do old people really expect us to believe that for nigh on six years — six terrible, barbaric, godforsaken years when every day might have been their last — not a single unmarried person had sex, purely because they had absolutely no idea what it was?

Yet not one veteran has ever gone on record explaining how a worldly Officer schooled horny troops on the birds and the bees before letting them loose at brothels in every port, until whole battalions were pus-ridden and blind with syph.

Not one man has ever gone on one of those documentaries and bragged about how, after escaping conscription on account of flat feet, he ran through every girl in the munitions factory until his white-feather dick waved a white flag.

Not one old bag has ever sat her granddaughter on one knee and told how she accommodated so much G.I. semen during the final years of the war she was awarded a George Cross and earned the nickname “Pearl Harbour.”

The whole steely silence reeks of a cover up. I’m pretty sure that by V.E. Day things must have gotten so debauched that the blitz streets were awash with jubilant Home Guards having ticker-tape anal gangbangs with Land Girls while the Military Police stood back circle jerking over ration coupons in lieu of digestive biscuits.

Upon the damning realisation that wartime infidelities seriously jeopardised a return to normal British family values, the Home Office, backed by the Ministry of Health and the Church of England, must have implemented top secret plans for a blanket sex denial in the interests of National Security. Thereafter, every man and woman would have been herded into same-sex groups, treated for venereal disease, shown a propaganda film titled something like Loose Lips Sink Relation-ships, and forced to sign away any sexual knowledge whatsoever under the Official Secrets Act.

And so with the help of a mythical, patriotic stork that stoically delivered infants through the still peacetime nights, the brave virgin countrymen of an innocent empire went forth and multiplied, passing down their callow creed and rebuilding our green and pleasant land fumble by furtive fumble.

Tuesday, 5 October 2010

Let’s Call a Spade a “Spa-de-de.”

Cosmopolitan Magazine Cover, September 2010 issue.
What kind of world do we live in when even Cosmo tiptoes around an everyday medical term and replaces it with a euphemism sounding like something from Teletubbies?! Did somebody forget Feminism actually happened?

Friday, 10 September 2010

Nobody Beats The Biz.

VIDEO: 'B-B-B-B-B-Bennie and the Jets.' Biz Markie, The Chris Rock Show, 2000.

I’d love to see how hard all those dour, pedantically competitive, pencil-up-their-arse, professional karaoke pillocks would shit themselves with indignation if Biz Markie just rolled up drunk and bowled onto to the stage with this badboy!

Monday, 7 June 2010

You're Not Punk, And I'm Telling Everyone...

Keeping up the fine accidental tradition of watching Against Me! for free — gratis ticket courtesy of Georgia.

"Looking for context and perspective,
looking for some kind of distraction.
White crosses on the church lawn,
I want to smash them all."
Against Me!, 'White Crosses.'

Went to see Against Me! again recently and, despite what the insular scene purists posit, they've still got it.

I've watched this band live easily thirty times: from in the pit, from the side of the stage and from across the venue while working and I firmly believe the passionate-but-realistic, confrontational-yet-danceable, operating-outside-of-the-anarchist-bubble, Sire Records, Butch Vig, fuller-sounding, anthemic rock incarnation of recent years is exactly where Against Me! should be.

I don't understand how the 'sell out' accusations carry weight when the lyrics are still as brave and impassioned as ever, yet more mature and literate to boot. Granted, I used to preach from that same hymnbook, but the whole business of whether or not a band has 'sold out' seems so tired now the music industry has changed and I'm not 17.